


entry points

by neroh



Series: in sin + error [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Illya, Character Study, Friends With Benefits, Idiots in Love, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Top Napoleon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8911342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh
Summary: Falling in love with Illya is like walking into a room of people and picking out the one thing that’s worse for you.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Bre for being the most amazing friend/beta and Mo for corrupting me with spy dumbs, and then enabling me to write a series of spy dumbs smut with her.

Falling in love with Illya is like walking into a room of people and picking out the one thing that’s worse for you.

Napoleon shouldn’t do it, but he does anyway. He throws himself off the cliff before he realizes there’s nothing to catch him at the bottom and that he’s falling…

He imagines the room—a grandiose one with all the luxurious fixings because he _is_ Napoleon Solo, after all—to be filled with finely dressed occupants. They’re all in their own conversations, parting as he circulates and unconsciously leading the way towards his biggest vice. If a spotlight, like one of those in a dimly lit jazz club, were there, it would be shining down on Illya and offsetting the gold in his blond hair and bringing out the darkest blues of his eyes.

It would reveal the grimace tugging at his lips and how much Illya hates being in a sea of strangers.

And he would shine just a bit brighter because, to Napoleon, a man who loves and collects (nee _steals_ ) beautiful things, Illya Kuryakin is the most beautiful thing in this non-existent room.

An unsuspecting masterpiece—created in the cold depths of Russia and the men who trained him and whose actions are always done with thought and careful deliberation. Hands made to kill, a body made to withstand the most brutal treatment, and a quicksilver mind.

Illya is many things: dour, intelligent, and kind. He’s the single most stubborn individual Napoleon has ever encountered and possibly the most infuriating.

And yet he can’t help but fall into bed with him.

He can’t get enough of the taste of Illya’s skin on his lips or his spunk down the tight channel of his throat. Or the way his cheeks turn pink from exertion and how sweat rolls down the elegant curve of his neck. Napoleon has seen the way Illya’s sea-blue eyes burn with his raw desire swimming within their depths.

He’s seen how Illya glows before, during, and after sex; how he smiles crookedly, shyly while they lie in bed as their skin cools.

It makes him fall deeper into Illya’s sphere, dredging up emotions Napoleon never knew he contained.

Napoleon knows how to thaw Illya’s chilly exterior, setting him alight with their encounters and leaving him gorgeously disheveled. All of that careful posturing is replaced by tendrils of damp hair, trembling limbs, and the vision of his spill dribbling out of Illya’s puffy hole.

Sex, it seems, turns Illya into someone who enjoys being ravaged. His entire body beckons Napoleon to hold him down on the mattress and fuck him through it, which he does gladly.

“Ruin me, Cowboy,” Illya growls more than once, the taunt coming from a kiss swollen mouth that tastes like blood oranges. His nipples are adorned with mouth shaped bruises as well as the jut of his hips and the inside of Illya’s left thigh.

A mosaic of color across sun-drenched skin, in places only they can find.

Napoleon knows how lovely the cords of Illya’s neck look when his head is thrown back in ecstasy, matting his hair against the pillows as he moans or curses. The sound of his orgasm is the most beautiful melody Napoleon has ever heard, its rising crescendo as Illya’s pleasure comes to a head and the coda that ends up a sharp cry of his name.

Honestly, Napoleon imagined Illya being silent as the grave in bed. Perhaps a grunt here, another there—nothing more than a passing noise to indicate his pleasure. Never uttering a dirty word or begging for more; just stoic and rigid and uncolorful.

Until he found himself in bed with him.

There, Napoleon unlocked the secrets underneath Illya’s clothing and learned what resulted in fingernail scratches between his shoulder blades. He’s felt the piping hotness of being inside of the other man, the tightness encasing his cock, and their bodies melting together.

He’s surprised how well they fit, seeing that their initial impression of each other was several degrees from being homicidal.

Enemies and then tentative friends, only to be better lovers than they were the other things.

It’s laughable to Napoleon as he runs his fingertips over the softness of Illya’s mouth, tracing the shape while its owner watches him through heavy-lidded eyes. They are stretched out in bed, a tangle of linens and limbs while the city of Lisbon bustles outside their window.

Gaby is somewhere in the city, having a debriefing with Waverly over dinner, no doubt.

And they are here, naked and snatching time alone before the spell breaks and reality comes back for them.

“Cowboy,” Illya whispers, his lip catching on the pad of Napoleon’s thumb.

He doesn’t look up into the sea of Illya’s eyes. _Like the waters of Sardinia_ , he thinks. “Shut up, Peril,” Napoleon chastises. “I’m concentrating.”

“ _Cowboy_ ,” Illya repeats, his voice louder than before. Not loud enough to be overheard because they’re the only ones in the room.

Napoleon makes a disgruntled sound and frowns at him. “Yes, Peril?”

He tries to ignore how lovely Illya looks, barely covered by a sheet. It exposes the delectable parts of him - the planes of his chest, the ridges of muscle on his abdomen, the trail of dark blond hair leading to his cock. Given another ten minutes, Napoleon thinks he could be inspired to fuck him again if Illya allows it.

Illya tilts his head, watching Napoleon like he’s a curiosity in a museum and he’s trying to figure him out. “This thing we are doing,” he says, carefully. His teeth draw over his bottom lip in thought. “It is not a good idea.”

For a single, dreadful second, Napoleon thinks he’s being dumped until he notices the grin on the other man’s face. It brightens his eyes and makes him appear softer somehow. He thinks how much he’s willing to risk to be with Illya, how much he’s willing to break for him.

 _I love you_ , Napoleon muses. _I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I love you_. “I’ve heard that bad ideas are sometimes the best kind of ideas,” he teases, inching closer to Illya. He drops his mouth to the center of the other man’s chest, delighting in its warmth and the steady beating of Illya’s heart.

Illya shifts under him, a gasp escaping as Napoleon kisses his way to a nipple. His tongue flicks out, caressing it until it hardens and Illya’s hands tangled in his hair. “Wouldn’t you agree, Peril?” Napoleon asks, lifting his eyes to meet his lover’s before sucking the nub into his mouth.

“ _Da_ ,” Illya groans. “I like bad ideas.”

Napoleon hums in agreement and pops off Illya’s nipple to repeat the process to its twin. “As do I, Peril. As do I.”


End file.
